


i will climb the palm tree; i will take hold of its fruit.

by priorviolets



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/priorviolets/pseuds/priorviolets
Summary: Oh, that topic of Desire: a strange, dead planet. It’s just that—well! The last person who moved inside her is dead, her eyes stolen inside of Mercymorn’s reflection every single day, but besides that—John is too skittish, too reverent, his hands on her waist with an awed shyness that doesn’t suit him.[Mercy/John/Augustine, the night of the heist.]
Relationships: Augustine the First & John Gaius | Necrolord Prime, Mercymorn the First & John Gaius, Mercymorn the First/Cristabel Oct
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	i will climb the palm tree; i will take hold of its fruit.

* * *

God, as it turns out, talks too much when he fucks. But not even in complete sentences--not like Augustine, who comments on the view in dulcet tones from over John’s shoulder—rather in short bursts of sound, single words teetering off into nothing, soft praises of Mercymorn’s name.

It’s been a while, who _knows_ how long: her body is tight like a fist, set to a burning edge with nerve and something like desire but not quite. Oh, that topic of Desire: a strange, dead planet. It’s just that—well! The last person who moved inside her is dead, her eyes stolen inside of Mercymorn’s reflection _every single day_ , but besides that—John is too skittish, too reverent, his hands on her waist with an awed shyness that doesn’t suit him. There are brief, mortifying moments where Augustine will suck at his neck or right the rhythm of his hips with a touch, and John Gaius, the King Undying, will appear near tears, blinking at the two of them as if to say _I can’t believe you’re giving me this. Me! This!_

His hips go still, and his dark head bows to his collarbone as he struggles for breath. “Oh, Mercy—” (It may have been: _Oh, mercy._ ) “You’re—you’re so tight.” 

“Well, _that’s_ no good.” Augustine appears like an apparition over the Emperor’s shoulder, looking down at her with such clear focus that she can barely hold his gaze without wanting to shiver. “You haven’t warmed her up enough, John. A cardinal sin among men.” 

“Quiet,” Mercy gasps out, swatting at him. “Busy your mouth with something besides idle commentary.” 

“Are you all right?” John is suddenly right there, looming close to her, close enough to kiss. The pain that wells in her chest is so sudden, so jagged with calcium deposits and barbed wire that she wants to puke from it, wants to flay herself wide open until he burns clean through her with divine light, or something. 

Cristabel asked the same thing once, back when her body wasn’t a sad footnote to Mercymorn’s own—when she had substance, something Mercy could wrap her limbs around and become a part of without anyone having to fucking die for it. Because Mercymorn the First _had_ been virginal once upon a time, and had flowered open beneath the bashful rut of Cristabel’s hips as if having a body was a _good_ thing, like it was _easy_. They had laughed when Cristabel was finally inside her, giddy, breathless sounds that gave way to a radiant silence—awe-struck, hands clasped, Mercy arching to the ceiling like a bow-strung angel when it all came down. 

With a sudden fury, Mercymorn props herself up on her elbows and threads her fingers through John’s hair, roughly, hard enough to sting his scalp and bring tears to his eyes. “Keep going,” she hisses, and sends a makeshift wave of adrenaline through her bloodstream that softens the space where their bodies meet. John gasps against her lips, and his next thrust is hard enough to nearly crack Mercy’s skull against the headboard. No matter. Let her skull shatter—let her brains leak from her ears—it’s nothing she can’t mend, nothing that won’t stop her. _I will make this worth it,_ she thinks in a hot, mad rush, forcing a warmth to well between her legs until John’s thrusts echo lewdly on the air. _All of this will be worth it—I will make you worth it._

“There you are, darling,” Augustine coos against God’s ear. For one brief moment, he meets Mercymorn’s eye, and she revels in his muted shock at her performance: he lied when he said nothing could surprise him anymore. His hand rises to grip John’s throat, his susurrous voice hushing the other man’s ecstatic whimpers to no avail. “Look at him, Joy,” he murmurs. “He can’t even keep quiet because of you.” 

Cristabel used to laugh during sex, the joy bubbling out of her like a geyser. 

Mercy wraps her thighs tighter around the Emperor’s back, pushing him deeper inside, and there is no going back.

“Oh, God,” John says when he comes inside her, sobbing with relief, and Mercy thinks that makes perfect sense. Of course he would say that, actually. 


End file.
